Late Night Is Alright For Brad
by WholeMilk
Summary: After getting busted by his parents, Brad decides that a second weekend of being grounded is one too many.
1. Chapter One

It was another friday night, it was late September, and Bradley was bored. The clock showed 8:02pm and for a 17 year old that was sand was quickly slipping through the hourglass of his social life. Sure he could go out, find the party, get it in — there was only was issue: Two weeks ago Brad was busted for marijuana by his parents. He had been so sure that no one would find the pot taped up under the gazebo swing — but they had. As always with this family bizarre circumstance arose and his stash was found by that idiot Al. Al was alright, Brad thought, but he was such a bumbling square, it was not surprise that he found it. It was probably the first time he ever saw pot. How is that possible? Brad pondered Al's lack of life experience when he notice that it was somehow suddenly 8:30pm! He had to get out tonight — but it wouldn't be anytime soon.

"Brad?', Mrs. Taylor called from upstairs. "Your father and I are going to watch _As Good As It Gets_, do you want to watch it with us?"

"Sure." Brad shouted up to his mother.

Movie titel aside, this was certainly not as good as it could get. It could be worse — but it would certainly get better. Brad had to think of his emotional well-being, so tonight — he would sneak out, the he had so many times before. He had some idea about how to make up for lost time.


	2. Chapter Two

The clock on the built-in microwave showed 1:05am as Brad quietly moved through the kitchen. He was headed for the quietest of the first floor doors. He paused in front of the large glass pane and was still. He was looking for any sign of life over at Wilson's; any movement, any smoke from a grill, any low sound of chanting. Wilson was an odd duck, Brad thought. Nothing. Coast was clear.

Brad moved through the door.

Brad swiftly and smoothly walked the short distance to the bushes at the corner of their yard. Wilson's house was on his right, the open street was in front of him. The only sound was a slight wind and Bradley's breathing.

Brad stepped out from the cover of the bushes and started his walk down his street. He moved quickly passed the front of Wilson's house — still no sign of him — and he made his way towards downtown. The socks he put over the paints cans that he had in his backpack were keeping things as muted as possible. He had to get out tonight, he had to burn off some energy, he had to feel alive.

He didn't care about the pot, not really anyway. His parents had actually been pretty cool about the whole thing. Brad laughed when he thought of how Nick O'Carley's mom chased him out of the house with a broom when she just _thought_ she smelled marijuana on him. It turned out to be marigold, Nick worked in a greenhouse.

The cold sidewalk was free of ice and snow. The pavement looked almost soft in the moonlight. His shoes felt connected to the Earth as Brad took a sharp right hand turn at Fu Wong's and started downhill, towards the patch of dark woods at the bottom.

The buildings on the side street were mainly light industrial. It was an impossibly quiet night. It was so pleasing being out, all alone, seeing his breath rise. It was also like being under glass. Brad almost felt like he was being watched. It wasn't an alarming sensation however, it was exciting; it was like a call to play by some unseen playmate.

When Brad hit the end of the dead street he stopped and looked both ways. Another street, an industrial backroad of sorts, ran perpendicular to all the side streets in this part of town and parallel to the train tracks. No one else was around. Somewhere far behind Brad came the sound of a passing car; the tires gave off a cold, solid hum.

Brad crossed the street and stepped into the thin tree line.

Litter and leaves brushed against his shoes and pants cuff. He felt like he was making enough noise to be heard for miles. He stood still. He almost expected to hear a dog bark somewhere in the night. No sound. He quickly made his way up the very short rise of stones and onto the tracks. Again he looked both ways. He knew that there were three cars on a small spur about half a mile down the line, further away from home and turning slightly away the road. It was bright enough to see where he was stepping. It was never dark enough to use a flashlight. Not for this.


	3. Chapter Three

As Brad approached the two box cars and one round chemical car he felt the usual surge of energy. He felt the urge to run away and the urge to brazenly paint everything in site with his name — all at once. He dropped his back pack and open it. He reached into his back pocket and took out the golf gloves he used to guard his hands from the paint. He stayed, squatted down over the open backpack for a moment and listened.

He couldn't even hear the cars on the highway a mile or so off. He took out his can of dark blue paint.

Brad had already fitted the caps he needed on the paint before he left home. He got right to work. He had half his fill done before he heard the first sound other than the spray of the paint. Brad dropped down and waited. Another faint noise of stone on stone and then nothing. Perhaps some animal crossing the tracks, Brad thought. A deer? Brad got back to work. After a moment he reached back into his bag and produced a can of canary yellow for the outline. Michigan colors, he thought. His father would approve. Brad laughed to himself as he finished the outline. He stepped back, stood and grabbed his bag. He moved over to the next car and repeated the entire process.

Before too long he had solid throws on all three cars, each with a separate punchline. He always tried to include a punchline as an homage to Philadelphia graffiti, where it all started. He was finishing the last punchline and was actually laughing out loud at it.

_More Free Than Willy, Even When Its Chilly!_

Chilly was right, even with the gloves Brad's hands were cold and the paint was starting to be effected as well. It's a good thing I'm done, he thought. The can of blue was empty and he decided to walk down the tracks a little further to try and kill-off the yellow so he could rough the cans at Kelly's Garage or the empty supply house a block down, if Kelly's had a tow coming in.

After a moment Brad stepped back and took once last look over his work. Blue with yellow, yellow with blue. Three fill-ins with his name: "Noc". Sometimes he'd throw a "1" or "One" after his name if her felt like it. Tonight was about smashing some freight and getting home before his lost his fingertips to frostbite.

Brad put on his back pack, put in the empty can of blue paint and left it halfway unzipped. He started his way down the tracks listening to the sound of his steps on the cold wooden ties. He had tagged one electric box and was deciding if his hand were worth walking the distance to another one, next to a larger metal shed, a little ways on, when he head it.

Turning around, unable to place the noise, he quickly ducked down. He waited. Nothing. He waited still. He started to stand up… There was that noise again! Cops? Railway workers? Hobos? Brad was ready to bolt when he heard a voice he recognized.


End file.
